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  Roger wore the slightest smirk as I shuffled past him. Jameson was a few steps behind me. We couldn't even manage to walk in unison, at least as a pair, to face our angry director.

  Harlow called to Jameson from the shade she'd found near the cook's tent. He shook his head. "Not now, Harlow," he said quietly.

  Sawyer basically let the door on his trailer shut on us as I reached it. I pushed it open angrily. He had no right to be such a dick. Jameson's footsteps sounded behind me. He stepped into the trailer and shut the door. Sawyer walked to his kitchenette and pulled a bottle of water out of his fridge. He took several gulps while Jameson and I stood like two kids in the principal's office waiting for him to sip his coffee before he laid into us.

  He plunked the plastic bottle down hard enough that water splashed out of it. "That was pure and utter shit."

  "Yeah, it was." Jameson stood right next to me. It was the closest we'd been in years, and even though we were about to get ripped a new one by the director, I was keenly aware of the heat coming off of him and the scent of whatever soap he had used this morning.

  Sawyer looked at Jameson, then at me, then he stared down at his feet before lifting his face again. "Why the hell was it shit? The two of you—" He rubbed his face and spun around to pace to the end of the trailer and back. His ponytail swung angrily back and forth, reminding me of a little girl throwing a tantrum. He turned back and his face was red. "You two aren't supposed to be shit. You're fucking Jameson and Kiki, Jake and Katy, your on screen chemistry was palpable. That's what the critics were saying. It was undeniable. It made people want to go out and fall in love."

  The two of us stood there listening to his rant with no response. What could we possibly say? "Was this just a big fuck up on my part? It's just—" He waved his arm around. It seemed he was more interested in berating himself than his two leads. "Was I just being a delusional idiot? Shit, the producers are going to have my head. How could I be so wrong?" he asked as he took one more angry pace around the trailer.

  Jameson and I couldn't bring ourselves to even glance at each other. Sawyer turned, swung back around and some of the anger had been replaced by a sort of pleading, pained expression. "I had such high hopes. It's just that you two—yes, I know you were both hormonal teens but, fuck, the two of you were so in love. I'd watch you guys on set, when the cameras were off. Kiki would be doing something as simple as pouring herself a bowl of cereal in the food tent and you—" He waved his hand toward Jameson. "You'd be watching her with a look—as if she was weaving gold out of straw—as if everything she did was magical."

  Surprisingly, his words tugged at my chest. It carried me back to those days on the Kisses set when everything was amazing. I woke up and went to sleep each day thinking about Jameson.

  "Just think maybe you misjudged this whole thing," Jameson said, grimly.

  As much as Sawyer's words touched me, Jameson's stung. It sounded as if he'd given up any possibility of there ever being chemistry between us.

  Sawyer's phone beeped. He grabbed it off his belt, still looking as if he'd lost everything.

  "Go ahead, Rowley," he said into the phone. It was on speaker so we picked up everything Rowley, the key grip, said.

  "Just checking in on the weather. Looks like we've got a windstorm coming in. Red flag advisory from noon until six tonight. The guys have to get the equipment inside because it sounds like we're going to have a real California Dust Bowl."

  "Fucking hell," Sawyer muttered. "That's a 10-4. We'll shut down for the day and do the first interior shot on the set tonight. Call time nine o'clock."

  "Copy that," Rowley said.

  Sawyer looked at both of us. "You heard that. Nine o'clock. And try to bring me something other than shit. Would ya?"

  I nodded and slinked out as Jameson held the door for me. He hurried to catch up to me.

  "How are you doing, Keezy?" There it was, one simple nickname and a flood of memories came back to me. Where were those memories fifteen minutes ago when I needed them? They were hidden behind the dozens of faces staring from the sidelines and through camera lenses and from behind boom poles, while I tried to work up some kind of nostalgic attachment to my co actor.

  I stopped and turned to him. The key costumer had put him in blue flannel to go along with the book. It was the perfect contrast to his suntanned complexion. Makeup had added in Nate's jagged chin scar. It only added to his appearance.

  I took a deep breath, realizing it was the first time we'd spoken face to face. "How am I feeling?" I glanced around at the organized chaos, the trucks, the trailers, the crew moving quickly to get the expensive equipment out of the hot sun. I smiled and peered up at him. I'd forgotten how damn tall he was. "Remember that time when we decided to take a bus to the beach, to get out of the city and away from the paparazzi?"

  His smile sent a silly, girl crush kind of heat through me. "We pulled on fedoras and weird big sunglasses and matching Hawaiian shirts, hoping no one would recognize us."

  I laughed. "Fedoras and Hawaiian shirts. That certainly wasn't an attention getting combo."

  "Hey, but it worked. We made it all the way to the beach," he noted.

  "Yes, and if we hadn't decided to risk pulling off our hats and glasses to go for a swim, we might have gotten through the day smoothly."

  His laugh was so familiar it almost hurt to hear. I missed hearing it. "That's right. We got swarmed by beachgoers with their phones. That guy asked you to autograph his stomach. I wanted to punch the asshole. Then we heard the bus and made a run for it, with our towels whipping in the wind behind us."

  "But we missed the bus," I said with a laugh.

  "And you decided it was perfectly reasonable to flag down an eighteen wheeler who just happened to be cruising down Pacific Coast Highway."

  I laughed louder. "Oh my gosh, I forgot about Bart, the truck driver. He had a beer belly to rival Santa's and that creepy skull tattoo on his forearm."

  "Yep, I was sure we'd just climbed into the truck cab of a serial killer when I saw the hatchet sticking out of the skull." Jameson's green eyes sparkled, once again sending a slow winding wave of nostalgia through me. How many times had he looked at me with those same sparkling eyes, and every time I'd felt like melting into a warm puddle. "But you were never worried," he said. "You two were yucking it up, sharing a bag of pretzels like you'd known him for years. You always had that ability to make friends, Keezy. I always admired that about you."

  I dropped my face, hoping to hide the blush I felt warming my cheeks. I jumped back to the truck driver. "Bart was just a big, colorful guy with stories to tell. And man did he tell them."

  I winced. "Still never forgot that story about the weird two headed coyote he saw running along the highway. He felt sorry for it and tossed it a sandwich and the heads growled at each other. The stuff of nightmares when you're nineteen." I shivered. "And twenty-eight too, apparently. Now I'm going to have a hard time falling asleep tonight." I released a deep breath. "Actually, after this morning, that's especially true."

  "Jameson," Harlow's small, fluttery but also slightly angry tone broke up the reminiscing moment. She was skittering across the broken asphalt toward us.

  I could swear Jameson tensed at the sound of her voice, but maybe that was me projecting my reaction onto him.

  "Guess I'm going to head back to costume to get out of the 1930s. Catch you later, Slate." I hurried away.

  Twenty

  Jameson

  The weather channel hadn't lied. The entire camp was pelted with sharp wind gusts and desert grit for a good five hours before the cooler evening temperatures seemed to soothe the wind's temper. Everyone had basically taken shelter, and when it seemed the worst of it was finally over, texts ping ponged across the lot and activity started up.

  After the disastrous morning, Sawyer had found new hope and enthusiasm for the first interior scene between Cassie and Nate. Roger's character was not part of the scene, so it was just the two of us. I had to adm
it, just talking to Kinsey for a few minutes, I felt more at ease with her, ready to play opposite her in front of the camera. I wasn't feeling too confident about the chemistry yet, but I was feeling better about the whole thing this time. Not that I wanted to make excuses in my mind about the pure shit we filmed this morning, but Sawyer's grand strategy to keep the two of us apart until the first big scene was probably a stupid one. We were thrown together for the first time in years in front of dozens of crew members and nosy spectators.

  "I think I'm going to take a shower." Harlow put her book down.

  Then there was Harlow, always nearby, never letting me out of her sight.

  "I'd swear that grit came right through the windowsills and landed in all my pores." She ran her hands along her smoothly shaven legs. "I want to be freshened up before we're needed back on set."

  "You mean, before I'm needed on set," I said far too sharply. Her bottom lip jutted out in a pout.

  "You don't have to be mad at me just because the two of you were terrible together in front of the camera." She stood up.

  "Thanks for that. Just what I needed. Look, do what you want, but this next scene is an interior shot so you don't need to hang around out in the dark. There are all kinds of night critters in the desert. Bats, owls, snakes."

  "Snakes are not night critters," she said as she walked into the kitchenette. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were trying to get rid of me." She always went right to victim status.

  "Not at all. It's just I don't think you need to be at every shoot. I'm having a hard enough time getting into this part. I don't want to be worrying about you standing out in the shadows, fending off bats and owls."

  Harlow swung her slim hips side to side as she walked toward me. She wrapped her arms around me and pressed her body against mine. "That 's so cute. You're worried about me. But I'll be fine in the shadows." She lowered her arms. I considered kicking myself for not just telling her to stay the fuck in the trailer. But if I had, it would be a whole damn thing, and that was the last thing I needed before filming.

  "When is your call time?" she asked as she glanced at the clock on the stove. It was just after six.

  "Not until nine."

  "Oh, poo and I was going to make us some pasta primavera, but I really need to shower." She reached up and rubbed some strands of hair between her fingers. "I've got to wash this desert grit out of my hair. I feel like I just spent the day at the beach."

  "No problem. I'm hungry so I'll head over to the chow tent. Do you want me to bring you anything?"

  "Gosh no, I couldn't eat any of that horrid food. I've got a yogurt. I'll make do." There was self-pity in her tone, which I ignored. After all, she could just head back to Los Angeles. Then there would be no grit in her hair or yogurt dinner and I could concentrate on saving my fucking career.

  I strolled across to the food tent. The crew had come out of hiding from the wind storm. They were assessing damage and setting up for tonight's shoot. A few of the camera assistants were leaving with taco bowls that looked good. I hadn't realized how hungry I was until I smelled the onions and taco seasoning. They didn't look up from their bowls as they hurried past. I was pretty sure I was getting the cold shoulder because of the morning catastrophe. Although, nothing really went wrong. It just didn't have what Sawyer was looking for, which turned him into a grouchy asshole, which meant I'd made their jobs that much harder. I wasn't going to take all the blame though. In fact, the other half of the catastrophe was standing alone at the taco bowl table with a serious brow and those incredible lips as she contemplated which toppings to choose.

  She hadn't heard me come in. I took a moment to watch her pick up a slice of tomato, scrunch up her nose and drop it in the bowl.

  "What did that tomato ever do to you?" I asked as I headed across to the table.

  Her face popped up and her big blue eyes smiled. "I suppose I'm prejudging it because Shelby listed the toppings I was allowed to have on my taco salad, and tomatoes were on the yes list. Since cheese was on the no list, I decided tomatoes were the enemy." I glanced down at the bowl she was holding. There were only three chips under the mounds of lettuce, tomato and cucumber.

  "That's not a taco bowl. That's a party for a rabbit." I picked up a bowl and shoved it into the basket of chips.

  "Well, it turns out I'm too fat to be a Dust Bowl farmer's wife. And my assistant is Attila the Hun. Therefore"—she lifted the bowl—"Here's to Thumper, Bugs and—" She shook her head. "Those are the only famous bunnies I can think of."

  I laughed quietly as I spooned taco meat onto the chips. "I forgot how much you used to make me laugh."

  She turned her face down and pretended to be interested in the lettuce. She'd reacted the same way when I complimented her on her ability to make friends. It seemed the years apart had made things too damn awkward. It seemed the days of talking to her, like I used to, because she was always the best damn listener, were gone. But there was one thing I had been wanting to clear up forever, and the taco bowl table seemed as good a place as any.

  "You know, Keezy, there was never anything between me and Veronica Taylor. That stupid tabloid blew it totally out of proportion."

  She was still staring down at her bowl, avoiding eye contact. "That picture said it all."

  "That's the problem," I said. "It didn't. Veronica and I were in the same drama classes in college. We were friends. That's all. In fact, she fell in love with one of the drama teachers. They're still together, as far as I know. She had called me. She was totally hysterical."

  Kinsey finally looked up. The big innocent blink of her angel eyes caught me off guard, and I temporarily forgot what I was talking about. "Remember that total sleaze of a director, Terrence Nabor? The one who is now finally facing the heat with sexual assault charges."

  She pursed her luscious lips for a second. "How could I forget? He stuck his hand up my shirt during a camera test."

  Every muscle in my body tensed, a reaction I was not expecting. "He did? When was that? Why the hell didn't you tell me?"

  A tiny grin appeared on her face, and I realized I sounded like a fucking alpha dumbass.

  It was my turn to pretend interest in my bowl of food. "Sorry. Just instinctual, I guess. Anyhow, the creep had sexually assaulted Veronica, and I was the person she came to. I tried to talk her into going to the police, but she was too worried it would destroy her career. She just needed a friend to talk to. That's all it was."

  "You should have told me then," she said.

  A harsh laugh barked from my throat. "Are you fucking kidding? Are you fucking kidding me with that right now? Do you know how many times I tried to call you, to visit you, so I could do just that?"

  As I spoke, her shoulders and body twitched defensively. She stared at me, picked up the plastic bottle of hot sauce and lifted her chin. "You should have tried harder." With that, she gave the bottle a hard squeeze. The stream of hot sauce squirted sideways, leaving a red trail all over her shirt.

  I laughed.

  Kinsey grabbed a handful of lettuce and threw it at me. It fluttered over the table, a few pieces making their mark and landing on my shoulder. I plucked a piece off my shirt and ate it. "Really, that's what you bring to a food fight? Shredded lettuce? How will I ever wash it off?"

  Her sly smile kicked up those lips that I'd spent hours thinking about. She picked up a ladle of sour cream and flung the cream across the table. I ducked but still managed to catch a spray of it on my face and hair. I used the back of my forearm to wipe it off.

  Kinsey covered her mouth to stifle a laugh as she backed up a few steps.

  "Now you've done it, Greene." I grabbed a giant spoon of guacamole and pulled it back like a catapult.

  Kinsey squealed, tossed her bowl in the air and tried to make a dash for it. I circled the table with my spoonful of guacamole. I wrapped my arm around her waist and hauled her against me. The blob of guacamole only grazed her and flew back at me. She laughed hysterically, trying to esca
pe my grasp as I smeared some of the mush on her face.

  "What the fuck?" a familiar voice said from behind.

  We froze, spooned together and covered in avocado. "Do you think if we stand still, Sawyer won't notice us?" I whispered into her ear.

  She shivered and giggled at the feel of my breath on her. I temporarily flashed back to me nibbling that very same ear, hoping to evoke the same giggles along with a few sexy sighs of pleasure.

  I couldn't believe how reluctant I was to release her. My hand stayed against her flat belly for seconds longer than it should have.

  We both straightened and slowly turned toward Sawyer. His scowl was a little strained, like he was trying to hold it there.

  "What. The. Fuck. Was that?" he asked.

  Kinsey wiped avocado off her cheek and held up her hand. "Food fight? He started it."

  "Uh, excuse me?" I said, pretending to be indignant.

  "Not that." Sawyer waved his arm to get us to shut up. "I can see that you had a food fight, which you'll both have to clean up. I'm talking about this." He waved his arm in a circle in front of us.

  Kinsey and I looked at each other, mirroring each other's puzzled expressions. Although, I was sure hers was way more adorable.

  "People with food on them?" Kinsey offered, uncertain about how to respond.

  "Oh, shut up, Greene. You know damn well what I'm talking about," Sawyer snapped.

  I leaned sideways toward Kinsey. "Do you know what he's talking about?" I muttered.

  "Not a clue," she muttered back.

  Sawyer started a small pacing circle, then turned back still waving his arm, only this time pointing to somewhere outside the tent. "So, this morning, Slate, you walk toward her, Cassie," he said, "with the same expression you might wear walking up to the gray haired woman behind the counter at the post office, and you, Miss Avocado—" He shook his head as if he still couldn't believe what he'd witnessed. "And you watch Nate walk toward you with a stiff expression as if some zombie was lumbering toward you, hoping to eat your brain. Then, I walk in here and the two of you—and red hot sparks of electricity—shit, the tent is contracting right this very moment because of the static you two built up with your little, erotic guacamole moment. There better fucking be guac left, by the way, because I came in here for a taco bowl."